A Random: An Inspiring True Story of Fighting to Survive and Choosing to Forgive

By Cindi Broaddus and Kimberly Lohman Suiters

Cindi Broaddus didn't realize that her life was about to be forever altered as she sat in the passenger seat of a car on a lonely highway, speeding toward the airport in the early morning hours of June 5, 2001. A single mother of three and a delighted new grandmother, she was thinking only of her well-earned vacation when a gallon jar of sulfuric acid, tossed from an overpass by an unknown assailant, came crashing through the windshield. In a heartbeat, Cindi was showered with glass and flesh-eating liquid, leaving her screaming in agony and burned almost beyond recognition.

A Random Act is the riveting firsthand account of a brutal and senseless attack and its aftermath. Much more than one remarkable woman's chronicle of an unthinkable tragedy and amazing recovery, Cindi's story is one of hope and transcendence, born of a conscious and dedicated determination to turn a nightmarish experience into something positive and uplifting. Her unforgettable journey back to life and a gloriously renewed sense of purpose offers illuminating truths about love, healing, and the astounding power of choice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jan 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9780062274212

Cindi Broaddus

The mother of three daughters and a three-time grandmother, Cindi Broaddus serves on the board of trustees for the Dr. Phil Foundation, founded by her brother-in-law, Dr. Phil McGraw. She lives in Duncan, Oklahoma.

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Prologue

In memory of Taylor Sevee LeNorman,

the bravest little girl I’ve ever had the privilege to know

1

Am I Dying?

I NEVER HEAR it coming. I never see it fall. And I never hear the bloodcurdling screams that come from my own mouth.

I do not feel anything.

I must be dead.

But I can’t be dead because I am aware that I have a few seconds left. So have I come back to life? Or was I never dead at all?

The only explanation is that I am suspended in a void between life and death. It is a reprieve, a few seconds to tell my children good-bye.

My first conscious thought is that Jim, my friend who is driving, will have to carry that message for me. I hear myself begging him.

Jim, please, pull the car over. Something has happened to me. I am dying. You have to tell my girls how much I love them. Tell them I’m so sorry, I don’t want to leave them like this. Please pull the car over, Jim, please.

I need him to listen to me, to give me every ounce of attention he has, but why won’t he stop the damn car? The darkness is overwhelming, not only outside in the predawn blackness, but also inside of me.

Though the fire is scorching my skin, I can’t get a more searing image off my mind: my three daughters. The more I slip into the fiery abyss, the farther away from them I feel. I cannot die like this. I have too much living I want to do. Please, God, get me home to my family. This cannot be real. I don’t want Angela, Shelli, and Brandi to know I died like this—in so much pain and so afraid. I just want them to know I love them so much. I would give my life for each of them. We have been through it all together. If this is my end, I don’t want my last moments to be apart from them.

It’s so dark and loud that I’m afraid Jim won’t hear my desperate message unless he stops the car and listens to my every word. I need him to pull over so he can be my eyes, my ears, my mouthpiece. Does he even realize what’s going on? I must be dying the way my mother did. Of a silent, deadly heart attack. Her death devastated me, so I know how my daughters are going to feel. I can’t stand that thought. I can’t stand leaving without them knowing that my last thoughts are of them.

I can’t see! Jim, I cannot see. I’m dying. I’m dying! You must stop and listen to me. Please pull over, Jim. Please, you’ve got to pull over.

Jim hasn’t answered me, hasn’t explained why he won’t pull over. Instead of Jim’s voice, I hear the voices of my daughters. I see their faces, but I can’t touch them. I need them so badly right now, and I know they’d rush to my side if they knew what I was going through while they were sleeping. Can Jim even hear me, or have I already died? Is my time up?

I’m screaming bloody murder, but to me, my voice is calm. It seems to have no effect on Jim. He drives faster. I can’t see the road, the speedometer, or him, but I can feel him accelerating, regardless of my pain, my fear, my death. My mind is going a million miles per hour. I’m reliving my life.

Shut up, Cindi! I won’t do it. You’re going to live to tell them yourself. Jim fires back with a force I have never heard from him before. He would never tell me to shut up unless it were a last resort to shake me out of hysteria. It works. His intensity is welcome because it tells me I am alive. Oh my God, I am alive.

But for how long?

That void, not knowing whether I was alive or dead, is gone. What replaces it is even worse. It is pain and fear.

I can’t pull over, Cindi. I have to get help. God help us, I think someone threw acid on us.

In the dead of night, on a long, lonely highway, someone crept along an overpass with a gallon glass jar of sulfuric acid, and waited. It was 3:00 A.M. on Tuesday, June 5, 2001. At that hour, the H. E. Bailey Turnpike outside of Newcastle, Oklahoma, might as well have been the bleakest, loneliest dirt road in America. Little did we know that someone else was awake at this hour, planning his attack, his heart filled with anger, his hands bent on destruction, and his eyes focused on the highway below. He had the upper hand as he waited for his defenseless victims, two innocent people who trusted that a quiet night meant a peaceful one. Two innocent people whose lives would be changed forever.

Did I hear Jim right? Acid? Who would do such a thing? But because Jim won’t stop, and because of the desperation in his voice, I’m convinced someone is chasing us. Someone set me on fire and Jim is not stopping because now that person is after us. Who would chase us? Why does he want to kill us? Where is he now, behind us, or right beside us? How do we get away from him?

These answers can only come from Jim because I can’t see. I have been blinded by the acid. My face catches fire first, then my neck and chest and arms and stomach and legs. The pain is unbearable. I’ve got to get it off me. With both hands, I cover my face, feel something moist, and believe I’m bleeding. But it’s my skin coming off in my hands. My eyelids, my chin, my lips are all being eaten by acid.

Cautiously I take one hand away from my face, making sure the other is still covering as much of it as I can reach. I grab at my shirt and it shreds in my hand. My clothes are so soaked in acid that they burn my skin more deeply. I can’t get my bra off, and my skin melts around it. I thrash around like a wild woman with no thought, just a feeling that I have to get this liquid fire off my body. It is eating me alive.

It seems like hours, but only a few minutes pass, when I finally hear Jim say the words I’ve been praying for.

Cindi, I see lights. There’s help up ahead.

I know that’s what he said, even though the wind is deafening. The jar of acid had crashed through the windshield of my car, leaving an enormous gaping hole through which the air beats mercilessly against my face. The dark morning is cool, but it tortures my burning skin. A million tiny shards of glass pierce my cheeks, my arms, my breasts, and my legs. Is this what dying feels like?

After driving one and a half miles that feel like one hundred and fifty, Jim pulls over. He stops the car so abruptly I hear the tires screech. Because I’m literally blind, I can’t see the horror on his face, but I’m about to find out why I’m going to die.

I couldn’t pull over until now. I’m sorry, baby.

Along the way, he’d spotted only the yard lights of distant farmhouses. We’d traveled this turnpike many times before and knew there aren’t many exits. We’d never gotten off before reaching the city. Jim had driven to the nearest exit and turned toward the first bright lights he could see, about a quarter mile away. It’s the Newcastle Indian gaming complex.

Hold on, baby, I’m going to get help.

Without waiting for me to respond, he’s gone. As the door slams shut behind him, another excruciating blast of air adds to my agony. For all that I can’t see, I can hear Jim’s footsteps running away, and then the quiet—the damn, deafening quiet. I once again feel the paranoia that someone is chasing me, Jim’s abandoned me, and someone’s going to get me. Death is going to get me.

My fear is suffocating. The abyss is black and spinning and sucking me down. If only I could see. I have to escape. I have to get out of this car so I can breathe.

I will breathe again. I will not be trapped. I will not sit here in acid and glass and shredded skin and let this take me. I’m about to make my first choice in this dire situation. I have decided to fight. I’ve been alone before, and I know I have to help myself before anyone else can help me. I could sit here, feel sorry for myself, and accept what’s been handed to me or find out what’s beyond this car door.

My right hand feels its way to the latch. I open the door and pull myself out, wondering where Jim is. It’s eerily silent. No cars, no people, not even the ever-whipping Oklahoma wind. It’s not what I expect. No one is rushing to help me. My moment of courage is fading quickly. I shut the car door. With my right hand again covering my eyes, I feel my way along the car with my left hand. I sense the heat of the engine. I have no idea where I am. I’ve never felt so alone.

I don’t know where the hell I’m going, but I’m going. For a second, I take one tiny step too many and suddenly find myself panic-stricken. I’ve lost contact with the car, and fear shoots through my burning body. Fear on top of fear. Pain on top of pain. The pain is pounding to the beat of my racing heart. The car, which moments before felt like my tomb, now seems like a safe haven. But I don’t know where it is—left or right, in front of me or behind. In the time it takes to inhale, I’ve lost touch with the only thing that was keeping me grounded. My knees weaken and fear engulfs me. I realize how very lost, confused, and helpless I am. My flailing hand finally touches the car again, and I take another breath, this one deep, thanking God that I’m on familiar ground once more.

I imagine an angel touching my shoulders, but then I recognize the feel of Jim’s arms and hear his voice. With his right arm around my waist and his left arm holding my hand, Jim rushes as he leads me, blind, across the parking lot to a water faucet.

Here, baby, get down on your knees. I’ve got to get you washed off. Without arguing, I do what Jim tells me. Cupping his hands under the faucet, he splashes water all over me, trying to wash away a madman’s destruction. I’m screaming in pain again. My clothes are still coming off in strips. My skin is smoldering.

Jim’s voice is pure controlled calm at this point. I’d always known what a brave person he was, but now his strength is really coming through.

Cindi, everything’s going to be okay. An ambulance is on the way. Help is coming. Hold on. Just hold on.

The ambulance takes time, but the acid wastes none. It is ravenous and merciless and has no saturation point. It burns through surfaces until it is washed away.

Am I dying?

I hear a voice I don’t recognize. No, you’re going to be okay. You are going to be just fine. I’m Richard, head of security here. Richard joins Jim in the frantic attempt to rinse as much of the acid off me as possible. After a few seconds of using only their hands, they realize the futility of their efforts.

Wait a second! Richard says. This travel plaza has a truck stop—there are showers. Let’s get her inside.

They lead me, wet, half-naked, and in complete shock, to the showers. Each step brings more pain. God, I need your help. I know you have an army of angels and I need to ride on their wings. He answers my prayers by bringing me these people. But the prayer I need answered most is for the ambulance to get here.

The water from the showers is not the welcome relief I had hoped for. The changing temperatures, combined with the fact that my top layer of skin is gone, brings its own new agony. First screaming, It’s too hot! and in the next breath, It’s too cold! and then pleading for someone, anyone, to get me help, I continually ask everyone around me, Am I going to die? Once again, I am sure that this is what death must feel like.

Jim himself is in need of attention. The acid has burned his head, right arm, right shoulder, and stomach. One of the female clerks stays with me while Jim is led to another shower.

Her voice is calming. Just hang on a few more minutes, sweetie.

It hurts. It hurts so bad.

I know. I’m so sorry.

Where’s the ambulance? What’s taking so long?

The clerk explains that it has to come from Blanchard, fifteen miles away.

Some of my clothing is still on me, including my bra, panties, strips of the red Capri pants and chunky white tennis shoes I had bought specifically for my vacation. Only one thing makes it through without harm—those shoes. I actually had resisted buying them, because they seemed too trendy for a grandmother, but my daughter Shelli had insisted they were the perfect complement to my outfit. Getting dressed that morning, I almost put on open-toed sandals, but that hadn’t seemed fair to Shelli. I would soon find out how that one small decision would play a major role in this unfolding drama.

In the distance, I can hear the siren. Like someone who struggles for hours to stay afloat in the ocean and relaxes the moment help arrives, only to drown before she can be saved, I slip into unconsciousness.

The clerk rouses me just as a man approaches my shower.

Is the ambulance here? I thought I heard a siren.

No, honey, not yet. It’s just the police.

Officer Gary Norman, Newcastle Police Department, he says. He tells the clerk to keep turning me around under the showerhead.

Make sure to get some in her mouth, too. She probably screamed on impact, and who knows how much she’s ingested.

Am I naked? I ask, now that I know a man is nearby.

No, you’ve been taken care of. You’re covered, Officer Norman answers. He sounds calm and collected, but when I met him later I learned that his gut instinct told him he was looking at a dying woman. He also told me that when he’d driven up to the travel plaza and seen my car, he found it hard to believe his eyes: he’d never seen anything like it in all his years of police work. It looked like an enormous rock had smashed the front window, but it was obvious that something hot had melted the glass. Whatever it was had turned the inside of the car black, like a trash fire. After one look at that car, and another at my skin, he knew he had a major emergency on his hands. He immediately suspected foul play.

It sounds like everyone is yelling. Over all the commotion, I can still hear the police questioning Jim in the next shower stall. Where did this happen? What did you see? What can you tell us?

I turn toward the sound of Officer Norman’s voice. Please, please, I scream, call my daughters! I’d been protecting them since they were babies, and even in my condition, all I care about is taking care of them. Even though they are grown-up women, in my mind, they’re still my little girls.

I don’t think I’m going to make it. Call Angela and have her call Brandi because she’s the closest and she can get here first.

Do you want me to just call Brandi?

No, let Angela call her sisters. Whatever you do, don’t call Shelli. She can’t take this kind of news. I’ll give you her number, but don’t call it. If Angela doesn’t answer, then call Brandi next. Whatever you do, don’t call Shelli.

I’m so busy screaming at Officer Norman, I don’t hear the ambulance arrive. One EMT checks on Jim, while the other rushes to my side. I’m vaguely aware that I’m being lifted onto a gurney and keenly aware of the piercing wind as I’m rushed to the back of the ambulance.

The paramedics ask me where I want to go.

Dazed, I reply, The closest hospital you can get to.

What about the burn center at Baptist? they suggest.

I really don’t care where we go. Just get me help.

I hear radio chatter between the hospital and the paramedics.

We have a female patient, extensive chemical burn, lots of pain.

Lying there, all I want is to wake up from this nightmare. This can’t be happening to me. This kind of thing only happens in the movies. But, I realize, it is happening to me.

Jim climbs into the ambulance beside me. Hang on, Cindi, you’re going to be okay. I’m not convinced.

While one medic jumps into the front seat, the other works on removing what’s left of my clothes. My bra straps are so soaked with acid, they’re eating the flesh on my shoulders. The skin that has melted around them makes removal very difficult for the medics and unbearably painful for me. They pull at each piece. I beg them to stop, but my pleas fall on deaf ears.

I’m sorry, but we have to get this off. They cut the bra, inch by inch, until it’s finally gone.

Are we clear to give her morphine?

The medic looks for a place to put the IV and can’t see one. I have burns all over my body—my eyebrows, eyelids, nose, lips, cheeks, chin, neck, chest, breasts, stomach, arms, hands, fingers, and the right and left legs from the knees down. Amazingly—I believe miraculously—the skin on my thighs was unscathed, although we didn’t realize it until later. And later, having this unburned skin would prove crucial to my treatment and recovery.

Reviews for A Random

[dara85 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Cindi Broaddus, a hard-working single mom was on her way to the airport for a well-deserved vacation in 2001, when acid was thrown from an overpass. Cindi suffered third degree burns over nearly 70% of her body and her boyfriend, Jim was also burned.Cindi spent 18 days in the hospital and had countless surgeries to correct the random act of violence she endured.Through it all Cindi chose to forgive and not become a victim or become bitter. She urged others to perform a random act of kindness in her name.A very inspirational, uplifting read.